


Flickers

by Tah the Trickster (TahTheTrickster)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Love Confessions, Microfic, Post-Talon Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Pre-Talon Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Sparring, Square Up Lacroix, Tickling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahTheTrickster/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster
Summary: A collection of requested microfictions.





	1. Involuntary (Rating: General)

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by @gallantly-dreaming: "amelie wont stop tickling angela someone save her"

Perhaps the biggest mistake Angela Ziegler had ever made just so happened to be the fault of nothing more than an involuntary physical response.

Amélie had simply been sleepily cuddling against Angela's back, nuzzling into her neck, hugging her loosely around the waist as Angela went about fixing their morning coffee. When the pot was on, Amélie had transitioned to lightly kissing Angela's neck and stroking her sides in gratitude—which would've been  _ fine _ except that then Amélie's fingers had ghosted over her ribs and Angela had given a shrill yelp and jerked away with an undignified flail.

Amélie had only been confused for a second, but then it clicked, and with a huge, evil grin she understood. Her girlfriend was  _ excruciatingly _ ticklish.

Since that morning, Angela's life had not known peace. She'd be curled up on the couch browsing for something to watch on tv as Amélie cuddled up to her and then she'd have Amélie's fingertips against her ribs. She'd be reading a new medical journal under her little bedside lamp, underlining interesting passages, and then Amélie would be tickling her under the arms. She'd be at  _ work _ for chrissake, and a simple midday visit would end in Amélie trapping her against the door, tickling her mercilessly until Angela was flailing and swearing.

It wasn't even fair. Amélie had  _ no _ ticklish spots—Angela had stubbornly tried to return the nuisance recently, to no avail. So she turned to threats instead, informing Amélie in no uncertain terms that if she didn't knock it off she was getting put on  _ a ban _ . That was enough to sober Amélie up. She assured Angela she'd give her a break.

The break lasted two days.

Then Amélie ambushed Angela in the bedroom doorway with another tickle attack.

Angela shrieked and swore and laughed as Amélie dug her fingers into her ribs, catching her under the arms when she could, relentlessly poking and prodding her as Angela tried desperately to pull away from her. They went down in a tangled heap on the bed, Amélie struggling to maintain contact. Angela tried shoving at her shoulders. Amélie saw her opening and grabbed Angela's wrists, pinning them above her head.

It took Angela a few minutes to get her breath back, residual giggles still rippling through her chest from time to time. Amélie simply watched her, a rare grin on her face. Angela was just... indescribably lovely like this, her face flushed pink, hair splayed wildly under her, chest heaving with panting, shivering and pinned beneath her...

" _ Awful, _ " Angela managed to wheeze out between breaths. "Terrible—god you're just the worst, I hate you..." There was no bite to it.

Amélie simply snickered and leaned down to press a cheeky kiss to her gasping lips. " _ Je t'aime aussi. _ "


	2. Cocky (Rating: Teen+)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by @mememmetra: "We need an actual scene where Angela yells 'Square up Lacroix!'"

It was, apparently, a rite of passage for new recruits to spar with Angela and try to get her to tap out. Amélie didn't really get it, herself, but she supposed it  _ was _ amusing to watch young men with overblown egos slink away after having to tap out to the slender medic. She might not have been anywhere near the strongest person in Overwatch, but she  _ was _ one of the faster members, and may very well have been the most flexible. (Amélie had put  _ that _ one to the test on her own time.) Add in a devastating knowledge of anatomical weak points and it was nigh impossible to get her in a position to pin.

And Angela knew it, too. Amélie hadn't ever seen her quite this cocky before: winking and grinning at the upcoming challengers, making pseudo-sympathetic noises at the ones she'd already sparred with. She had to admit, her lover wore confidence well. It didn't hurt, either, that she'd worked up a light sweat from the exertion, making her workout gear cling to her just so...

Amélie leaned back in her seat and smirked slightly as Angela lightly heckled the remaining recruits, who by now were starting to refuse the match at all.

"Cowards," Angela chuckled, lightly elbowing Hana in the shoulder.

"Seriously!" Hana agreed, grinning broadly. She met eyes with Amélie briefly and nodded at her. "C'mon, it's tradition. Amélie, tell 'em."

Amélie rested her chin on the back of her hand. "I'm afraid I can do no such thing," she drawled smoothly. "I never had a sparring match with her." Hana sputtered in surprise. Amélie smirked. "Extenuating circumstances, if you'll recall."

A slow grin appeared on Angela's face. "Amélie—"

"Bad idea," she demurred immediately, a glimmer of mischief in her sharp golden eyes.

Angela laughed, resting her hands on her hips. "Scared, schatzli?"

Amélie shot her a deadpan look. " _ Chérie. _ " A note of amused warning threaded through her voice.

Her grin broadened, and she put up her fists in a pretend boxing pose. " _ Square up, Lacroix. _ "

Amélie gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes and got up. Angela laughed and settled into proper sparring position.

Angela tapped out seventeen seconds later.

Amélie got an earful that night about how "inappropriate" her scissor takedown had been,  _ particularly _ in shorts and  _ especially _ around her neck, and was informed in no uncertain terms that she was to "never fucking do that to me in public again." Amélie simply blew her a kiss from the couch and informed her that in the future she should consider laying those kinds of rules down beforehand.


	3. Moondance (Rating: Teen+)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted 2 write something extremely soft and extremely gay and Here It Is, Here Is The Soft Domestic Gay Content
> 
> [put this on loop in the bg for Maximum Effect](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lFxGBB4UGU)

Angela Ziegler was tired.

Perhaps that was too tame a word. The good doctor was frequently tired. Angela now was fucking _exhausted,_ and suffering from a mood drop in the worst sort of way as a result. It was hard to stay chipper with a severe block in her research impeding further progress, and harder still when she'd spent the week with a bad case of insomnia and nightmares besides.

But if there was one skill Dr. Ziegler had picked up from her multiple degrees and diplomas, it was how to overcome a bad mood and severe lack of sleep by way of her trusty coffeepot. She was feeling the effects of the caffeine crash now, though, as she stumbled into her flat too late at night, kicking off her shoes with a world-weary " _Fuck._ "

Too much blood in her caffeine stream, as she'd liked to joke in college.

The swear had garnered some attention. "Angela?" Amélie was standing in the kitchen door now, brow creased with concern. She supposed she looked as bad as she felt. "Are you alright?"

"Feel like shit," she said honestly, allowing herself to be pulled into a comfortable hug. Angela sighed into Amélie's neck, enjoying the contact and the soft lavender scent on her along w—Angela gave a little derisive snort in recognition. "Hm, you've been using my shampoo," she accused halfheartedly, mumbling the words into Amélie's throat.

Amélie chuckled, reaching up to undo Angela's hair tie so she could lightly run her fingers through the mess of blonde waves and curls. "Only because _you_ used the last of _mine, chérie._ "

Angela muttered a half-assed excuse against her, glad that their positions kept Amélie from seeing the guilty blush that touched her face. Amélie laughed nonetheless, pulling away to give her a slow welcome home kiss. "Tell me how I can help," she requested, brushing Angela's bangs back from her face.

"God, I don't know," Angela half-whined. "I'm just tired and frustrated and—" she struggled for words for a moment "—and I _feel like shit._ "

Amélie's eyes glittered, her expression somewhere between sympathy and amusement. "So you've said."

"It sums it up nicely."

"Well," Amélie said through a thinly-veiled chuckle, "let's see what we can do about that."

Angela couldn't even muster up the energy to protest when Amélie swept her off her feet, simply grumbling as she locked her legs about Amélie's waist, her arms about her neck. "I hate when you do that," she huffed, burying her face in Amélie's shoulder. She didn't miss that the position "required" both Amélie's hands on her backside, either.

"I know," was all Amélie said, pressing a chaste kiss to Angela's neck.

She was carried into the living room and deposited carefully on the couch. Amélie disappeared into the kitchen for a moment  and returned with two glasses and a bottle of Angela's favorite rosé. Angela quirked a brow. "You hate this wine." Amélie always complained that it was entirely too sweet to qualify as a "real wine."

" _You_ like it," Amélie said simply, already pouring her a glass. Angela gave a quick little amused exhale and accepted the proffered glass. Amélie poured one for herself as well—considerably less than the amount she'd given Angela, as she'd insisted several times that she'd rather drink paint thinner than the sickly wine, but nonetheless she also knew that Angela hated drinking alone.

Angela was all too willing to let herself be pulled into Amélie's lap then—all too willing to let a deep sigh slip through her lips as Amélie's free hand slid up her back, her neck, before her fingers slid into Angela's hair, lazily running her nails over her scalp. Angela could only purr at the slow, languid scratches. She shivered slightly at an unexpected tingle down her spine, hummed softly, and nuzzled into Amélie's neck again. Amélie's wry chuckle rumbled soft under her lips.

" _Ça va?_ "

Angela huffed out a soft sigh. "I guess." She pressed a soft kiss to Amélie's cool skin, just above her slow pulse. She did feel a little better, at least. The subtle warmth from the wine in her throat and stomach had taken the roughest edge off the stress, at least, and the comfortable, comforting body contact with her girlfriend was rapidly evaporating the remainder of it.

She could handle still feeling poor if at least the stress part was gone.

Amélie gave a skeptical hum. "You don't sound it." She pulled back slightly to steal a soft, chaste kiss. "You haven't smiled once since you got home."

"I am feeling a bit better," Angela clarified, leaning in for another slow, sedating kiss, sighing softly at the sweet wine on Amélie's lips. Amélie's pupils were wide and dark when it ended. "But I do still feel... rough, yes. I'm in a rut, Amélie, can't you let me mope for a bit?" The inquiry was supposed to be joking. It came out petulant.

"Hm... no." Angela rolled her eyes. Amélie chuckled and tapped her on the nose with a single finger. "Fortunately, I have just the thing for ruts."

Angela craned a brow as Amélie carefully eased her from her lap and stood, stretching as she strode to the entertainment center on the far side of the room. She brought up the holoscreen of the small stereo she'd splurged on and began idly scrolling through her music library. Angela just shook her head and poured herself a second glass.

When the speakers came to life, Angela nearly pulled a face at the sound quality. Amélie had the tendency to listen to old music—recorded _analog,_ of all things, for some reason—and this seemed needlessly warbling, even for her.

"Amélie, what in the _world?_ " she snorted as a soft jazz bassline crackled out, piano overlaid over it. Amélie simply offered a rare grin as she crossed back over to her. Angela gave her a peculiar look as Amélie plucked her wineglass from her hand. "This is old even for you. This has to be older than _Reinhardt._ Why are you playing this— _whoa!_ "

Amélie chuckled softly at the startled noise as she hauled Angela to her feet with a flourish, twirling her once before catching Angela around the waist again, one of Angela's hands in her own.

"Y—no," Angela protested, shaking her head vehemently as Amélie shrugged Angela's free hand onto her shoulder. Her arm tightened around Angela's waist, pulling her close. "Amélie I swear I mean it _no_ you _know_ I can't dance—"

"I'll lead!" Amélie laughed, keeping her hold firm. "Come now, _mon ange,_ don't you trust me?"

"I trust myself to break something if you try to make me dance," Angela warned, reluctantly allowing herself to be lead nonetheless. Amélie was gracious enough to keep the dance simple, an easy one-two-three-four step-and-sway in time with the soft jazzy music she'd selected, and Angela was at length able to keep up passably.

"There you go," Amélie teased softly, stealing a quick kiss, "you're doing fine."

"This barely even counts," Angela countered, trying not to smile. She could only imagine how ridiculous this would look to an outsider: Amélie, still looking infuriatingly perfect and statuesque in yoga pants and a camisole, leading her, hair wild, still dressed in scrubs, her labcoat brown at the sleeve where she'd spilled coffee on herself _again,_ in a dance through their fashionable little living room at god-knows- _what_ -hour, set to music from what had to have been a hundred years old, as their fat black cat watched judgmentally on from his bed nearby—the mental picture was nearly enough to make _her_ laugh.

"No?" Amélie challenged, eyes glittering mischievously. Angela didn't even have time to warn her against whatever she was thinking before Amélie led her in another expert spin and then Amélie had her in a low dip, one arm around her shoulders, her other hand hiking Angela's thigh to her hip, and Angela yelped and grabbed for her girlfriend around the shoulders. "How about now?" Amélie teased, pressing several exaggerated kisses up Angela's throat before kissing her full on the mouth, and the absolute _ridiculousness_ of the entire situation was enough that Angela simply dissolved into a fit of giggles, one hand releasing Amélie's shoulders to cover her face as she tried to stifle her laughter.

"You— _god_ you are so _dramatic,_ " Angela tried to scold through her giggles. Amélie picked her back up with ease and Angela could only bury her face in Amélie's shoulder, trying desperately to shut herself up. "Absolutely _ridiculous._ You are so _extra_ I can't even _begin_ to—" Amélie slipped a finger under Angela's jaw, tilting her head up for another soft kiss, Angela's laughter still stuttering softly against her lips.

" _There's_ that pretty smile," was all Amélie murmured, smiling fondly herself, when Angela shot her a quizzical look. A pretty pink flush touched Angela's face at the admission.

"God, you're such a _sap,_ too," Angela accused lowly, relenting with a smile and tugging Amélie back in.


	4. Enough (Rating: T+)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Amélie," Angela breathed faintly against her mouth.
> 
> Widowmaker pulled back just enough to shake her head. "...I'm not her."

Widowmaker had long since decided that Angela looked the most beautiful on the nights they spent together.

The thought occurred to her again now as Angela slowly came to under her: a pretty blush still settled on her cheeks, lips parted just slightly as she gasped for breath, blonde curls loose and wild about her head, baby blue eyes gazing drowsily up at her through pale lashes...

She was so pretty that it made Widowmaker's chest hurt to look at her. That it made her breath catch in her lungs. That it made bitter guilt settle on her tongue. Like she shouldn't be seeing her like this. Like she didn't deserve it. Maybe she didn't.

It didn't stop her from murmuring soft "I love you"s into the dark of the evening—into the rapidly-fading love bites on Angela's throat—into the sensitive spot below her ear that made her shudder under her.

Widowmaker held Angela down by the wrists on either side of her head, moving to kiss those tempting lips again. Angela shivered under her, sighing softly against her mouth, and Widowmaker's hands slid up, clasping Angela's hands instead. Angela gave a little half-moan into the kiss, tilting her head to deepen it. Widowmaker shuddered. Oh, she needed Angela not to do that. She'd never been good at resisting temptation.

"Amélie," Angela breathed faintly against her mouth.

Widowmaker pulled back just enough to shake her head. "...I'm not her." She wondered sometimes if Angela resented her for that—for taking her best friend and lover's body like this and making it her own. For daring to fall for her.

Angela's eyes cleared slightly at the soft reminder. She blinked. Nodded. "I—I know." Widowmaker cocked her head, watching Angela's expression. She looked somewhat lost, confusion etched in her soft blue gaze. Widowmaker released her hold on the doctor's hands and sat up. Angela blinked again and looked up at her. "Widowmaker?"

"Did you love her?" Widowmaker asked. The question was blunt, but there was no venom to it. Widowmaker didn't know any other way to be. She just wanted to know.

Angela grimaced for an instant at the question. She pushed her bangs back from her face with both hands, huffing out a sigh. She nodded finally. "I did. I do," she added as an afterthought. Widowmaker supposed the admission stung, as much as anything _could_ sting with her, but she could appreciate that at least Angela was honest. She had enough trouble navigating her own memories and emotions, let alone someone else's. Angela looked up at her, curious. "Does that bother you?"

Widowmaker merely shrugged, absently tracing Angela's soft lower lip with her thumb. Angela lightly kissed the digit, startling a ghost of a smile onto Widowmaker's face.

"I don't know," Widowmaker admitted at last. "I suppose it should." Angela's eyes fluttered closed as Widowmaker's too-cold fingertips absently stroked her cheek. Widowmaker was struck once more at how unfairly beautiful Angela was beneath her. She felt even more inhuman beside her—always had—and she was struck again by the feeling that she didn't deserve to see Angela like this.

The sensation was an ugly one: tight throat, an oppressive heat in her face and chest, stomach lurching... It was one of the few emotions she had that she felt in such a visceral way, and that Angela was the only one to cause it made her feel short of breath, feelings and sensations she couldn't put to words trapped behind her teeth, weighing down her tongue.

"Do you love _me?_ " The words were out before Widowmaker could stop them, and she only blinked in surprise that she let them escape. Angela stared up at her with wide blue eyes, frozen in place. Widowmaker saw a maelstrom behind them that she could never hope to identify. "You don't have to answer that," she said quickly, and offered Angela a wry, fake smile as if to cement it.

Angela moved to sit up, herself, and Widowmaker shifted her weight from where she was straddling Angela's hips to allow it. One of Angela's hands drifted up to Widowmaker's face, cupping her cheek, thumb absently brushing her lips. Those expressive blue eyes pinned her in place, and Widowmaker complied with the silent order to remain still and silent.

The look Angela had fixed her with was an odd one. Something like awe. Something like dismay. Something like terror. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, more than once but each time fell silent once more with a small, bemused frown tugging at her lips.

"I—don't know," Angela said, bewildered, after several excruciating moments had passed. The shock in her voice was clear even to Widowmaker. "Is that strange? None of the answers I came up with sounded right. I just... I don't know right now."

A small smile flickered at Widowmaker's lips, and she captured the hand at her cheek, pressing her lips against the pale knuckles. "I am not the person to ask about the strangeness of emotions," she pointed out, and Angela's tensed form relaxed slightly at the gesture and the joke. She slid her free hand around Angela's waist, resting at her back, and tugged her in for a kiss softer than she ever thought she'd be capable of, relishing the way the smaller woman melted into her.

"I think..." Angela started, mumbling the words against Widowmaker's mouth. It took Widowmaker a second to realize she was trying to speak. She pulled away, just slightly. Angela cleared her throat, cheeks flushed pink. "I'm not... I can't say for _certain,_ as I told you, but..." She pushed her bangs back again, gaze distant. Widowmaker brought her back with another kiss. "I _could,_ " Angela managed to whisper softly, fearfully, into the embrace. "I might."

Widowmaker allowed herself a rare grin. That could be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm hm hm i cant decide if this is fluff or angst. whatever. its a warmup piece 
> 
> loose inspirations for this one include ["fine again" by seether](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ET3-t1jFmo0) and [yet another (nsfw) drawing from dino](https://dinochoobs.tumblr.com/post/156966084724/just-remember-you-asked-for-this-angst-filth)
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Domestic Dispute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by @mememmetra, this is based on the true story of the time i was in quickplay and our widowmaker named "daddy" got a lifesaver potg for saving my fragile healer ass from a reinhardt and a soldier 76 and i wanted to die of embarrassment. [no, i am not joking about any of that.](http://68.media.tumblr.com/ae72a5f9d2bf4988ef8ea49ca72b1d6f/tumblr_inline_ol8djqThK61qcjo32_500.png)

When the team returned to the dropship after a successful defense of the payload, nobody was quite sure why, exactly, Angela seemed to be in such a foul mood. Her lips were drawn tight, her knuckles white on her staff, face flushed with something like furious embarrassment... Lúcio had tentatively asked her if she was alright, and the dark glare she'd shot in his direction quickly dissuaded the remainder of her strike team from asking.

With the exception, of course, of one Amélie Lacroix, whose shit-eating grin was equally noticeable.

It became quickly evident that the two were correlated when Amélie wrapped an arm about Angela's waist and was unceremoniously shoved away. "Not _one word,_ " Angela hissed, her blush worsening immediately. Amélie laughed, low and dangerous, and only managed to get out a teasing "Oh, but _chérie_ ," before Angela pointed a single threatening finger at her. " _Don't,_ " Angela snarled.

"What's uh..." Hana gestured between the two of them with one finger, then immediately thought better of it. She'd been traumatized by the pair's battlefield antics once before. "Wait no, _nope,_ nevermind, I don't actually _want_ to know—"

" _Lena_ ," Amélie purred, voice dripping with mirth, "run the playback from that mission, if you would."

Lena looked deeply unnerved at the amenity with which the sniper spoke to her, and from the way Angela cut her eyes over to her, she wasn't sure she wanted to be involved either.

"Don't you dare," Angela barked, stiffening sharply.

Lena held up both hands defensively. "I, uh—think I'll pass, luv, not really in the mood to wind up the doc." She laughed nervously. Angela simply gave her a single firm nod.

The remainder of the team glanced uncomfortably amongst each other. Athena kept detailed records and recordings of each mission of theirs for strategy and improvement purposes. Additionally, at some of the younger members' behest, Winston had implemented some algorithms in the recording protocols to calculate the most effective "plays" of their missions—to commend those who did particularly well was the official explanation, but the younger crowd tended to just have a running competition between them to see who could manage to grab the most plays. It was tradition to watch the playback for all those reasons. That Angela was seemingly forbidding it was baffling in the extreme.

But nobody was going to argue with her, either.

"Athena," Amélie spoke up, grinning devilishly, "run the playback, _s'il vous plaît._ "

"Now playing," came the AI's smooth voice as the nearby console lit up. There was a brief pause as Athena ran the necessary algorithms. "Play of the game," Athena announced, "callsign Widowmaker. Category: lifesaver."

Angela paled for a second before her face lit up anew in a furious blush. She whipped around and made to grab her girlfriend by the collar, but Amélie appeared to have anticipated it and sidestepped the grab. " _Amélie you son of a—_ "

" _Lifesaver?_ " Jack echoed with raised brows. Nobody blamed him; that was one of the rarer categories to receive a play in. "I didn't ever see anything that would've caused..." He trailed off, brow knitting in confusion.

Lúcio looked between Angela and Amélie once again, the furious glare Angela had fixed her evilly-grinning girlfriend with, and winced sharply as he made the connection. "Uh-oh."

Hana simply nodded, ashen-faced, in agreement. This was a fight that was going to last.

The playback started rolling. Angela sank into the nearest seat, burying her face in her hands. Sure enough, there was Amélie, hidden safely away atop the balcony of a nearby building as the fight raged on below. And there was Angela on the streets, propelling herself from soldier to soldier, patching them up as needed—and then with a scream she was caught in the charge of a great, hulking armored attacker as he rocketed forward, pinning her, set to crush her against the wall—

And with a little snort of derision Amélie took him out in a single clean shot through the skull. " _Magnifique,_ " the sniper purred as he fell. Nonetheless the velocity carried Angela the last few remaining feet into the wall, forcing the air from her lungs and cracking her skull hard on the brick. She staggered, wheezing and grabbing at her skull, too disoriented to notice another soldier rushing in to flank her.

Angela had only just whipped out her pistol, still in clear pain but willing to fight, when with another single shot from the Widow's Kiss, the soldier crumpled at Angela's feet. She froze for an instant and whipped around, eyes pinning the sniper immediately.

Amélie gave her a cheeky wave and blew her a kiss.

The recording just caught Angela's furious blush as she whirled around to leave before it ended.

"I hate you," Angela hissed from behind her hands, face just as red as it'd been at the end of the video.

"A 'thank you' would suffice," Amélie informed her with a grin, reaching over to tousle the doctor's hair. Angela roughly batted her hand away.

"Fuck _off,_ " Angela spat.

"That was a good save, though," Lena chirped, brow knit in confusion. She hopped up to sit on a nearby table, idly kicking her feet back and forth. "What's the problem?"

"The problem," Amélie drawled, "is the doctor's manners. I haven't heard a thanks yet."

Angela bristled and whipped around, jabbing a finger into Amélie's bare sternum. "That is _not_ the problem and you _know—_ "

Jack was already rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if trying to stave off the future headaches he knew he'd be suffering as a result of this argument. "Angela—"

"She knows what she did," Angela insisted, folding her arms stubbornly.

Amélie wrapped an arm around Angela's waist, yanking her close despite Angela's immediate flurry of German swears and shoves. " _Quoi?_ " She put on what was possibly the fakest innocent tone possible. "Perhaps I did not understand the meaning of the phrase—"

"Oh you _liar—_ "

"All _I_ said," Amélie insisted, grinning in a decidedly not-so-innocent manner and raising her voice to be heard over Angela's protests, "was _'who's your daddy'_ and _Angela—_ "

That marked the first time that Jack had ever had to physically separate the two before Angela actually broke several rules of her Hippocratic Oath all at once.


	6. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela wasn't sure there was a human or omnic alive who could talk Amélie out of doing whatever she wanted to do.

Despite Angela's not-infrequent warnings that her office was a wholly inappropriate place for any sort of  _ activity, _ it never seemed to sway her. In Angela's defense, she wasn't sure there was a human or omnic alive who could talk Amélie out of doing whatever she wanted to do.

That was the reasoning Angela told herself as she shuddered under her in her desk chair, as Amélie's blazing lips brushed maddeningly over her throat, hands pawing at her over her lab coat. Oh, this was reckless. She hadn't even locked her office door. She never did, but—christ, it was hard to think with Amélie's teeth on her skin.

"This is such a bad idea," Angela tried to chide. It came out too breathy to have any bite. The ragged gasp she let slip when Amélie left a rough, open-mouthed kiss at the sensitive skin just above her pulse negated her words even more.

"So tell me to stop," Amélie purred in her ear before returning to her throat.

God, this was so unfair. Angela was such a sucker for neck kisses.

Her breath caught sharply at the nick of Amélie's teeth against her neck, grip tightening on her  waist as Amélie soothed the sting away with slow, lingering kisses. Amélie's tongue flicked out, lapping lightly over her skin, up the column of her throat before kissing Angela properly again. She laughed softly into the kiss at the rough touch of Angela's hands on her backside, dragging her closer.

" _ Tiens, tiens, _ " Amélie purred against her mouth, reaching up to wipe away a smear of lipstick at the corner of Angela's mouth. "Here I thought you were opposed." Her lips drifted back to Angela's jaw, kissing a trail back down to her collar, dragging her tongue over the curve of her clavicle. Angela shivered.

"The door isn't locked..." Angela's eyes squeezed shut at the way Amélie ground her hips down against her—the way her open-mouthed kisses were just scorching against her throat. " _ Fuck, _ Amélie—"

"Perhaps later," Amélie teased, catching her by the chin and pulling her in for another kiss, finishing it off with a soft bite to her lower lip. She waved her phone at Angela then, moving to get up. "For now, we  _ are _ about to be interrupted." Her soft brown eyes glittered wickedly. "Do try to make yourself presentable."

When Gérard stepped into the office a few short moments later, Amélie was draped easily over Angela's couch, mug of tea in her hands, and Angela was sitting up at her desk, looking very much as though she  _ hadn't _ just been fervently kissing and fondling his wife.

"Afternoon, ladies," he greeted cheerfully, crossing the room to steal a kiss from Amélie, who laughed and pushed at him, complaining softly that he'd knock over her mug.

"Please don't," Angela snorted, turning to seek out her own mug of almost-certainly-cold coffee. "Heaven knows I've put enough coffee stains on that thing I might as well dye it brown."

Gérard laughed and strode back to her desk, bowing playfully and taking her free hand to press a teasing kiss to her knuckles. Angela rolled her eyes, unable to keep a little smile from quirking at her lips.  _ These damn frenchmen will be the death of me. _ " _ Mon ange, _ you wound me," he complained, grinning. "You should know by now that I'm  _ very _ good about cleaning up my own messes."

"Keep it in your pants, Gérard," she said dryly, her smile widening into a more genuine expression.

He opened his mouth to reply—and paused, brows shooting up suddenly. His lips curled into a slow, broad grin, and he placed a hand to his chest in feigned shock. "My god, Angela, you could've told me I was  _ encroaching. _ "

"Gérard," Angela drawled, finally closing her fingers around her (cold) mug, "I'm not nearly awake enough for your theatrics. What on earth are y—"

He grinned wickedly, running his fingers over his own throat, following a familiar path down. "So who's the lucky lad or lady?" Angela's head snapped to the side, catching sight of herself in the reflection of a nearby screen. In an instant she slapped a hand, too late, over her neck, a deep blush already burning in her cheeks.

A number of dark scarlet love bites littered her throat. Marks that she knew for a fact hadn't been there half an hour ago.

Gérard roared with laughter at her evident mortification, and Amélie couldn't resist flashing her a smirk and wink. "I'm happy for you!" he insisted between chuckles, wiping at his eyes. "It's about time you had someone of your own. Is it anyone I know?"

"Oh, do tell," Amélie chimed in, grinning wickedly at her behind her husband's back. "I'm curious, myself." She bit her lip in the way she  _ knew _ made Angela weak even as she subtly moved to slide her wedding band back onto her finger.

Angela's cheeks burned, now more with shame than embarrassment. "No," she muttered, averting her gaze from Amélie's subtle smirk and Gérard's genuine grin. "No, it's nobody either of you would know."


End file.
